The Weaver
by Tweede-Kans
Summary: Ben says he used to have dreams. What - who? - did he dream about? And how did these dreams shape him into the gnarly Ben Linus?


**Author's Note: **Hm, I rarely seem to be able to write anything that's canon... oh well. I was thinking about Ben's line to Locke, how he used to have dreams. And I was thinking about, I dunno, Ben and Jacob in general. So I thought, why not have Jacob act, for a time, as Ben's conscience-or his guardian angel? Indirectly some of these experiences are somewhat similar to my own, and that's probably why this is so off-canon and out-of-character. But eh. ;)

I hope you enjoy. It was, well, not "fun" to write, but satisfying simply because it got it out of my head! haha.

* * *

"_I used to have dreams…"_

Ben looked at Locke - he'd been watching him for a while - and when Locke shook himself free of sleep, when Ben saw his expression, he knew for certain a thing which he'd forever denied to himself. He was not special. He was nothing important, no matter how he cajoled himself into believing it, no matter how much any semblance of power tricked him into thinking so.

He used to have dreams - oh yes, and only a few, very long ago it seemed-but they had mattered so much back then.

* * *

The first had been when he was eight, brought to the Island. It was the first or second night, he couldn't remember which - memories are strange that way, how a few days can be interchangeable with one another - and he lay awake, the standard-issue sheets scratching at his skin, the noises of the jungle foreign and frightening. From the room next to him - the walls were nearly as thin as paper - he heard a low moan, a shaking sound, and knew his father was weeping.

Ben balled his hands into fists, buried his face in the pillow, let the tears burn his eyes but did not let them fall. He drifted in and out of sleep, plagued by shadowed faces - a pillar of smoke, a whispered voice - and, upon waking, he was terrified of the shadows of his room cast by the moon, who ducked and weaved amongst the clouds.

He dreamt of two men, one with eyes like the mid-afternoon sky, serene and untouchable. The eyes of the other were blue, too, but the rough color of the sea that tricked men into thinking they could utilize it for travel, only to dash their boats on rocks and turn blue waters bloody.

On either side of Ben they stood, each with a hand on his shoulder, and the child was struck with a memory, from a cartoon show or a book - he couldn't remember which - of an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other. Slowly he looked at them more closely - yes, they seemed to fit this image, for one - the man with pinpricks of sky trapped behind his pupils - wore a white shirt; the other, the man with eyes of the sea, wore black.

"Who are you?"

"I am a friend," said the black-clad man. "And he"- turning to look over Ben's opposite shoulder -"is the Devil."

Ben slid his gaze to this so-called Prince of Darkness. "Are you?"

"No, I'm not, Benjamin. And he isn't, either, but he'll have you believe it."

There was a pause, and then Ben asked of the man in white, "Are you… an angel?"

The man laughed - a sad, low chuckle that left Ben's skin prickling. It was sadness, an immeasurable weight, poorly hidden behind humor. "I'm not that, either."

"Then who -"

"His name is Jacob," interjected the man in black. "And he _is_ the Devil."

From one to the other, Ben met their gazes, felt Jacob's hand squeeze his shoulder gently, as if in reassurance. "Good night, Benjamin," were his last words - before Roger's shouting woke him, and the sunlight streaming through the window.

* * *

Over the years, Ben would repeatedly see this "Jacob" in his dreams, and sometimes he knew it was only his imagination, a mechanism of self-defense. In school, he learned about psychology and how the human brain can compensate for things that happen, bad things. Other times - other times there was something special, something important, and Ben sensed that these dreams were not of his own fabrication.

And sometimes there were more than dreams.

* * *

Once, when Ben was pinching a bloody nose, hunting for tape to repair his glasses, avoiding the shadow of his father, he saw a pair of eyes watching him from the shadowy corner of his room, by the window, where the moon's light was dissected by the panes of glass and wooden frame. Ben grew still, and watched, listening - crying for his father to help against this intruder would do him no good. And so he waited.

"Hello, Benjamin."

Slowly the figure stepped forward, and in the moonlight Ben caught a glimpse of sky-blue eyes, a worn face, sandy hair - and, seeming all the brighter for the light, the white shirt of the man who was called Jacob.

"I'm sorry this is happening to you," said Jacob. He knelt down at Ben's side and touched his shoulder. "I am. But you need to listen to me, do you understand? My brother - the man in the black shirt - the one you hear in the jungle, the 'monster' - he can take the forms of the dead."

"The dead?" Ben repeated. "Like - dead _people_? Zombies?"

"Not - no." Jacob tilted his head. Zombies? The word was foreign to him. "But he can take the form of anyone who's died - anyone at all, Benjamin. He does this to trick people. He will do it to trick _you_."

"What? Me? Why?"

"Because he can use you," answered Jacob slowly. "Now, Benjamin, I'm going to talk to you like an adult - sooner or later you'll realize why. We do not choose when we're forced to part with innocence, and some day, you'll grow up - you've already started to, you've seen more and experienced more pain than most adults in their entire lives. That is why my brother will trick you; he will prey upon the few things that matter the most to you, that shape your life, your dreams."

"Like what?"

Jacob's mouth twisted in a wry, bitter smile - or was it a grimace? "The memory of your mother."

There was a whisper -_"Be careful, Benjamin!"- _and then -

"Get up - did you _faint_? God, Ben - dammit, what's the _matter_ with you - ? Look like you've seen a…"

Ben did not listen to the rest of his father's tirade. Slowly he shook his head, wiped the cold sweat from his eyes, and rose shakily to his feet. Had he fainted? Had Jacob really warned him of - what? He wanted to cry, so terribly it felt like a sickness in the pit of his stomach. But he couldn't.

* * *

And then a man Ben didn't know - a Hostile - looked at him with a terrible sadness and said that he _was _right, the man was a killer… the trigger of a gun was pulled and Ben had felt searing pain wrench through him

- felt arms, cradling him, heard voices, saw the bright light of an operating room

- felt the emptiness and eeriness of the jungle all around him, more voices

- and then another pair of arms, holding him, carrying him

- water, there was water

- Ben supposed he was drowning.

* * *

"This is the last time I will see you, Benjamin, for a very long while, and never again like this." The voice of Jacob was somehow disembodied, wavering, slowly gaining strength until he was before Ben's eyes, as flesh and blood as one might expect in a dream. "You are in a very special place right now. Ricardus - you'll know him well, don't worry - he is a good man - he's taking care of you. The water you sensed - that's Ricardus washing away the blood and ducking you under the surface, to heal you. But it means _something_. Do you see, Benjamin?"

"See what?"

"Why this is special? Why this time is the last? Why - after this - you are on your own, and I will no longer help you?"

Fear seized him, and Ben reached desperately for Jacob, clinging to him, taking comfort in the rough white fabric of his shirt, furrowed ribs, strong shoulders, the tensing of his body in shock. "NO! Don't leave me, Jacob - _don't _-"

"It has to be this way, Benjamin. Years from now, I hope you'll understand why. But it _has_ to happen like this…"

_"I trusted you!"_ The words were raw, a scream, the cry of one who has lost everything. Ben flung himself away, twisting, tearing, with great force, as if he were struggling to escape."I thought - I thought you were an _angel_, a guardian angel! Don't leave me, Jacob!"

The man in white looked at Ben - his expression was unreadable but those eyes as blue as the afternoon sky glistened. "I'm sorry, Benjamin." He spoke casually, his voice steady. Had Ben paid attention, he would have seen the beads of sweat on Jacob's brow, the shaking of his hands.

Ben screamed, a wordless sound that shook Jacob more than Ben would ever know. But the vision faded, and before he regained consciousness, he heard a low chuckle, saw a different pair of eyes, caught a glimpse of the man in black, Jacob's brother. And then there was stillness - true sleep, without dreams - and then light, and Ben awoke, very much alive. Remembering nothing.

* * *

"_Why'd you do it, Jacob? Help him all these years - in dreams, in his life - encouraging his delusions?"_

_"Because it had to happen."_

_"Is that your answer for _everything_? Didn't it kill you to see the pain on his face? To see him cry? He loved you, Jacob! Doesn't that account for anything - or don't you know how to love?"_

_"Of course I know how to love, still. Because - and you'll never understand - I loved that child as if he were my own, and for whatever powers of fate exist, I wish it didn't have to be this way."_

_"He won't remember you. Or me. Us."_

_"No. I'm glad for it, though."_

_"Hunh. Maybe, someday, I can _make_ him remember."_

_"Try, Brother. By all means, try…"_

* * *

So long, so long after all of that, after his childhood and death and rebirth, after relinquishing his power to a man who wasn't quite Locke, Benjamin held a knife in a sweaty hand, the blade flashing as a fire danced some wicked dance. He looked around - the place, the plinth of a wrecked statue, was almost bare. On the wall hung a tapestry, and he moved to take a closer look; its weaver was skilled. A voice rose from the shadows:

"Do you like it? I made it myself."

That voice … Ben turned. There was the creak of an old, wooden chair, and a figure rose slowly to its feet - a man in a white shirt, with eyes that bore a bit of captive sky. Recognition slowly crossed Ben's mind. Words were exchanged, and all the while fury burned within him. Memories were dug up - this 'man', Jacob - _I thought you were an angel! - _and his abandonment, all the pain it caused … there was more in Benjamin Linus's mind that screamed to get out, that struggled against every other word that flew from his lips. But a great many things did not get said, and inevitably the knife fell anyway.

And one last time, Jacob laid his hand on Ben's shoulder - but this time, there was no comfort to be found.


End file.
